


Services Rendered

by rageprufrock



Series: Drastically Redefining Protocol [5]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-09
Updated: 2009-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:32:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Imagine the PR nightmare if good, hardworking French escorts found out.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Services Rendered

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the Hoyden and Moonklutz for their quick and dirty betas.

Standing in the shadows just outside the George V, Merlin thinks he should have changed.

It’s half eleven, and the hotel is an ocean of warm orange light, curving Art Nouveau lines and angular Art Deco color, and the battered skinny jeans he’s wearing are fraying at the hems, the black button-up he’d chosen a few sizes too large.

Still, Merlin thinks to himself, puts his courage to the sticking place, and walks through the doors, ignoring the speculative looks from the doormen and striding into the marble and candlelit lobby.  
   
He’s careful to scoot around the edges of the room, wary of all the beautiful people and their LV luggage, their Ferragamo shoes and Fendi handbags. Merlin doesn’t think any of them will recognize him for who he is, really, but he’d rather not risk it either way, and he rubs his hands against his jeans, nervous, and skirts past the concierge.

He gets caught anyway, the bellhop in the bank of elevators staring at him in blank shock for a minute before his mouth settles into a knowing smirk.  
   
“Going up?” he asks, grinning, and Merlin manages a wobbly smile.

“First floor,” he says. “Royal suite.”  
   
The bellhop smiles once more as the elevator doors slide open and Merlin darts inside, feeling trapped and harried and humiliated in the mirror panels of the lift.

“Of course,” the bellhop is saying as the doors slide shut again, and Merlin lets out a long breath, slumping against the walls and leaving fingerprint smudges, petty.

The ride from the lobby up is longer than it should be, or maybe time is just stretching out. None of this is particularly new to Merlin, and he should be less squeamish about this, after so many years, but he can’t help it. He still doesn’t belong, this still can’t be his life.  
   
The doors open again with a quiet, dim chime, and he steps out onto the floor, each footstep a hush and whisper against the carpet, battered sneakers sinking into the wool.

“Posh,” Merlin mutters to himself, rooting around his jacket pocket for a scrap of paper, jotted on a legal pad before he’d run out the door. “Revoltingly posh.”

It’s ultimately wasted effort, Merlin reflects with a little bubble of hysteria, because there’s no missing the ostentatious double doors of the suite, the silence of the hallway. Even the quiet is expensive, Merlin thinks with a smile, and lifts his hand to rap at the left panel, grinning.

There’s no response on the other side of the door, and Merlin frowns, knocking again. He could be out, Merlin thinks, there’s probably no reason to be concerned, but this was all meticulously organized, and --

The doors swing open, both of them, and on the other side is Arthur Pendragon, looking annoyed and tired, his tie loose at the neck with his shirtsleeves untucked, barefoot in black slacks.

He looks thinner than even the last time Merlin saw him on the television, smiling sedately down to a wildly cheering crowd, and his hair is all out of sorts, sticking up in odd places, and Merlin wonders if he’s woken Arthur up from where he’d fallen asleep working in bed, on a couch, over his desk.

“As agreed,” Merlin says, as Arthur’s annoyed expression melts into confusion. “I’m here.”  
   
Arthur stares at him a moment longer before repeating, “As agreed?”  
   
There is the possibility this whole thing was a horrible idea, and that Merlin should have stayed home and saved himself the mortification but it was too good to pass up — it was Arthur.  
   
“Then you didn’t call for company tonight?” Merlin asks, making it a tease. He takes a step closer, encroaching, and Arthur takes a step back, his eyes considering a moment, and Merlin can feel his gaze sweeping up and down his body: taking in the worn leather jacket, the black shirt, the jeans. Merlin’s not as young as he used to be, but he has it on fairly dependable authority he’s still decent enough on the eyes.

He must pass muster, because Arthur takes another step back, tilting his body, letting Merlin in, and one corner of his mouth — God, that mouth, Merlin thinks, making plans already — teases up in a smile as he asks, “Shouldn’t you be French? I have a reputation as a responsible local consumer, you know.”  
   
Merlin steps into the room, turning back to offer Arthur his most affronted pout.

Arthur just shuts the door after him and says, “Imagine the PR nightmare if good, hardworking French escorts found out.”

Merlin plucks at his leather jacket, wondering if he should take it off, what Arthur might like. It could be anything, really, something fast and rough and cheap, against the door or fucking against the carpet until he’s wearing a burn along his spine. It could be slow and comprehensive, and Merlin thinks he’d let Arthur work him over, open him up until he’s sobbing and desperate and every bit a whore.

“I come highly recommended,” Merlin says, only the last syllable in the last word hiccups off a little as Arthur’s hands close over his, tugging them away from the leather. And then Arthur’s fingers are closing around Merlin’s wrists, his gaze assessing.  
   
“You can provide references, then?” Arthur asks, his voice a low hush, a murmur, a tease said too close to Merlin’s skin, into the hollow of his throat, and Merlin spares a lightheaded moment to wonder who’s supposed to be seducing who here.

“From some of the most powerful people in the world, even,” Merlin manages, but only after Arthur pulls away enough that he can think again. Even still, this close, Merlin can feel the heat off of Arthur’s body, the strength under his skin, the way he smells like ink and a little bit like cigar smoke, the recycled oxygen of too many fine hotels.

Arthur narrows his eyes at that. “Some?”

Merlin blinks slowly, languid, he feels like his entire body’s been plunged into honey, and he’s leaning in, until the line of his chest is pressed against Arthur’s, the buttons on their shirts clicking, friendly.

“What do you want?” Merlin asks, because whatever Arthur wants, Merlin wants to do it for him. He’s not ashamed of this, how fatuous he feels. He’s been watching Arthur swan around Europe for what feels like months now, handsome and untouchable and unreachable on television screens, in still captured photographs in magazines and newspapers. Arthur is always so impeccably groomed, every strand of gold hair in place and his cuffs and shoes perfect — Merlin wants to wrinkle him, tackle him to the ground, touch him.

Arthur raises one of Merlin’s wrists, runs a thumb over the pulse point and follows it with his mouth, dropping one wet kiss there, the tiniest swipe of his tongue. “What do you do?” Arthur asks, his voice a rumble against Merlin’s skin.

“Anything,” Merlin says, voice hitching. He feels drunk, head spinning.

Arthur smiles against his skin. “Good,” he murmurs, and draws himself away, eyes nearly black in the dim light of the suite, in the tiny waning-moon slivers of the marble foyer of his suite.

“Go into the office,” Arthur tells him, freeing Merlin’s wrists — and Merlin can’t help but to feel a wave of loss at that, how could anybody not? — and nodding toward the only lit room in the suite.

Merlin does, feeling a bit shaky, feeling need thrumming just beneath the skin, and he finds the office as he imagined it would be — a disaster.

There are papers everywhere, the surface of the desk overflowing with blueprints and schematics, and Merlin thinks he catches the words “London Underground” on one before there’s the heat of fingertips at the small of his back, trailing underneath his jacket and shirt to the skin in the hollow there, teasing.

“I hope those aren’t government secrets,” Merlin says, and glances over his shoulder just in time to see Arthur dip his head, kiss the curve of his neck and score the skin there with his teeth, lavish.

“You’re supposed to pretend you didn’t see those,” Arthur tells him, brushing past him and going to the wingback chair behind the desk, flushed, his eyes glassy, and Merlin is struck with a sudden sense of greedy urgency. “Come here.”

He fits himself into the space between the chair and the desk, lets his knees settle and press against the insides of Arthur’s, warm, and leans back, puts his weight on the bony flare of his hips. Underneath his palms he can hear the crackle of paper, creasing computer printouts, a series of linen-finish invitation cards, their cream colored ribbons strewn and catching the light from the desk lamp.  
   
And — Merlin’s hand brushes, accidentally, against a cool silver frame, and he can’t help but pick it up, stare through the dirty glass at the photograph underneath.

It’s a beautiful family, Merlin thinks with an ache, feeling it spread out from his stomach and stretch to his toes. Two children, both blond, a boy and a girl, with the unburdened happy look of children well cared-for.

“Do you miss them?” Merlin asks, wistful.

Arthur looks down at the photo, back to Merlin, and takes the photo out of his hands — gently, with great care — before setting it away again, tucked neatly at the base of a lamp, murmuring, “I do.”

But before Merlin could open his mouth to say something reassuring, something that might brush that too-tired look off of Arthur’s face, Arthur slid his hands up Merlin’s thighs instead, palms heavy and hot and proprietary.

“Lean back,” Arthur says, “back on your elbows.”

Merlin’s mouth goes dry, and he does, feeling every stretch and motion of his body, his skin hot and too sensitive. He can feel his cock rubbing against the zip of the jeans — he’s been half-hard this entire time, and the intent in Arthur’s eyes — shadowed — is making the blood rush around Merlin’s head.  
   
“Clutch the edge of the desk,” Arthur says, his voice a rumble, and Merlin does, fingers grasping, trying to anchor himself. He’s glad he did it a moment later, when Arthur skims a kiss over the fly of his jeans, trails his mouth down and lower, his breath hot over the denim and making Merlin’s dick twitch.

Arthur, looking up at Merlin through dark blond lashes, says, “I think I’d like to suck you off a bit first — do you do that?”  
   
Merlin swallowed hard, feeling his nails dig half-moons into the surface of the desk. “Yes,” he said, voice coming out as a whisper.

Flicking open the button on the jeans — the skin underneath’s pink, blood-flushed from the beginnings of a bruise — Arthur draws down the zipper with both thumbs, leisurely and meditative, index fingers hooked onto Merlin’s belt loops.

“I’m very pleased to hear that,” Arthur said, and licking a long stripe up Merlin’s cock through his shorts and tugging the jeans down Merlin’s hips, cloth dragging against the leather blotter on the desk.

Arthur jerked harder, and Merlin let out a hiss, lifting his hips from the desk as the jeans dragged his shorts down, too, the feel of cotton and rough cloth scratching across his skin awful and wonderful at the same time, Arthur’s breath hot over the crease of his thigh, watching him with dark, jealous eyes.

Arthur’s lips — and it’s divine, just like Merlin thought it would be — are hot and wet and generous at the base of Merlin’s cock, laving it with open-mouthed kisses. He licks Merlin, base to tip once, twice, and flicks the tip under the head, closing his hands around Merlin’s hips in warning when Merlin jerks up, whimpering.

“Oh, and also, I was thinking,” Arthur adds, conversational, the soft movement of his lips ghosting over the head of Merlin’s cock, “would you mind terribly if I fucked you open with my tongue? You may, of course, decline.”

Merlin choked back a groan and said, “No — I mean, the customer is always right. Go right ahead.”

“That’s very good,” Arthur purred, and slid his hands under Merlin’s knees and pushing — shoving at Merlin until he slid back on the table, until his heels were braced against the arms of Arthur’s wingback chair and his head was hanging off the other end. He could just imagine what he looked like, a wanton sprawl, red flushing down his chest.

“Head back,” Arthur instructs patiently, and Merlin does it — reluctant, this time, he’d like to watch — but then Arthur’s mouthing the soft skin on the inside of Merlin’s thigh, leaving a trail of tiny bites — a sting and then a rush of arousal, trailing down from his knee.  Arthur lingers there a moment before he shifts again, pressing hot, atmospheric kisses into the place where Merlin’s thigh meets his hips, then back to suck bruises into the backs of Merlin’s knees and down again.

Arthur’s mouth is hot on his dick, and being apparently the world’s cruelest tease, he avoids touching Merlin’s sac entirely, licking wet lines down behind them, tonguing the skin there.

  
Merlin felt hot, too constricted inside his own skin — still wearing the black shirt that wasn’t his, the leather jacket from a younger, sluttier version of himself — pinned to the desk under Arthur’s hands and his mouth.

He wonders how long it’ll take before Arthur notices, and even though the delicate flicks of Arthur’s tongue are making Merlin’s thoughts spiral out of his head, the anticipation is sweet, simmering.

Arthur is humming now, a little, stroking letters and numbers -- birthdays? promises? Merlin can’t tell -- into the curve of his arse, pushing Merlin’s knees higher, and pressing in, closer.

Then Merlin feels another swipe of Arthur’s tongue and hears a gasp.

“Fuck,” Arthur curses, and Merlin feels the fingers on his thighs tighten to bruising and can’t help the grin that stretches across his face.

“You,” Arthur tries again, and Merlin looks up to see Arthur — dark-eyed, his hair a wreck, and Merlin thinks he should, his mouth a hot, red bruise — staring at him, looking ravenous.

“You’re already wet,” Arthur chokes out finally, and Merlin just smirks at him, taunting.

He stretches, shakes out all the tension in his muscles and lengthens out his bones, letting out a rolling hum.

“Maybe I prepped for hours for you,” he says, because he had, he’s been thinking about this for ages, since he’d found out Arthur would be in Paris. “Maybe I spent ages fucking myself open for you.”  

Arthur hisses, fingers tightening even more on Merlin’s thigh, and he loves that — that there will be marks from them, that he can wear them tomorrow and the day after and look at them and remember this.

And he can’t resist, so he says, breathy, “Or maybe I just let someone else have me first, before I came here — forgot to clean up.”

“Fuck, Merlin,” Arthur snarls, and whatever controlled dive he had planned is apparently now off the table — as is the lamp and a glass of brandy and a stack of papers, flying in a shatter of noise and broken crystal as Arthur shoves them out of the way.

Merlin’s arms are already opening, grasping Arthur’s tie and dragging him in, pulling him down for to kiss him, to taste him, to feel the rough burn of stubble on his cheek.

Then everything stops, Arthur freezes, and the corner of his mouth jerks up, eyes gleaming.  He asks, “How much?”

Merlin blinks at him, frowning and trying to focus.  “Pardon me?”

“To fuck you — ”

“All inclusive,” Merlin interrupts, impatient, working the button on Arthur’s trousers.  He can feel the head of Arthur’s dick in accidental brushes of his hand, hot and hard underneath the fine cloth.

“ — bare,” Arthur concludes, licking his mouth.  “No condom.”

Merlin’s fingers go numb on Arthur’s slacks, his mouth dry, and any blood not flushing his dick full and desperate rushes to his face.  He thinks of all sorts of things, the mess, the ribbed condom in his back pocket — all part of services rendered, of course — the way Arthur’s mouth is wet and bitten and bruised, the promise of naked skin on naked skin, the thought of Arthur fucking him open.

“Three hundred pounds,” Merlin tosses out.  “No — four.  Four hundred.”

Arthur smirks at him.  “Expensive,” he comments, idle, slides three fingers inside of Merlin, scissoring, possessing, casual, and Merlin bites back a moan to say:

“I’m worth it.  Four hundred — or — ”

He doesn’t get to finish, because Arthur is reaching into his pocket, jerking out his wallet and shaking it open with the same free hand — the other is still stroking Merlin, inside-out, the pad of his middle finger stroking, teasing, over Merlin’s prostate, making him throb — fifty euro bills raining down over the desk, over the floor.

“That’s two-fifty, at least,” Arthur says, leaning over to nip at Merlin’s collarbone.  “I’ll pay you the balance tomorrow if your arse is worth it,” he says, and Merlin should find that profoundly insulting, except of course coming from Arthur it’s maddeningly hot, a challenge, a dare, and he takes the opportunity to tighten himself around Arthur’s fingers, purring at the ache and burn of it, fingers grasping over the desk, pinky brushing against the crisp edge of a bill.

It knocks the stillness right out of the moment, and Arthur pulls his fingers out in a rush, a little rough, both hands suddenly scrabbling at his own trousers.  Merlin tolerates it for a few seconds before he lets out a whine, a moan — “Arthur, please.” — and Arthur growls out an imprecation — “Fuck, hold on.” — as he hears the slide of a zipper.  And when Arthur shoves inside of him — raw, nothing between them, and fuck, fuck, it’s so good, it’s wet and dirty and it’ll be a mess and when Arthur comes he’ll fill Merlin right up and — Merlin lets out a sigh at it, the easy stretch of it, the way it lights up all of his nerve endings and pleasure centers and makes him feel drunk, pliable.

Merlin had been expecting desperate, fast, for it to hurt a little and leave some bruises down his back — but Arthur just stays there, pressed tight into the cradle of Merlin’s hips for long, long moments.

He’s looking down at Merlin with something like tenderness on his face, longing, and it still makes Merlin humbled to see that, a little embarrassed, so he slides his hands up Arthur’s back, over the fine cotton of his shirt and wraps thighs around Arthur’s sides, urging.

“Come on then,” he whispers, thumbing the hair at the base of Arthur’s neck, scraping his nails over the skin there. “Don’t be a tease.”

It makes Arthur smile down at him, say, “Oh, as if you have any room to talk,” and roll his hips, deep, and Merlin gasps, digging his nails into Arthur’s back.

That seems like all the encouragement Arthur needs to start fucking him in short, brutal strokes, and it sends the desk creaking, protesting as it jerks across the floor of the room. Arthur reaches over, closes one hand around the far edge of the desk for leverage, and uses it to pull himself in, slam himself into Merlin viciously, and Merlin feels like all the breath keeps getting punched out of his body, every empty space inside of himself filled up tight and hot with Arthur’s cock.

“Oh God,” Merlin wails, fisting his hands in the back of Arthur’s shirt, and God, it’s almost embarrassing that Arthur can do this to him so quickly, reduce him to panting and begging this easily. “Oh God -- Arthur, please, fuck, fuck — _yes_ — ”

Merlin fists his hands into the back of Arthur’s shirt, holds on tight as Arthur fucks into him over and over again, the backs of his thighs buzzing -- there’s another set of bruises, Merlin thinks, dizzy. He feels the metal sting from the zipper on Arthur’s trousers every time Arthur’s hips slap into him.

Arthur hasn’t even touched him, and Merlin’s so close he can feel orgasm clawing at the back of his throat.  He’s glad Arthur’s hand is nowhere near his cock — Merlin wants to keep feeling this, wants for this to last as long as possible.  So he listens instead to the scratch of the wood and the floor, the faint noise of the air conditioner, blowing softly in the room, Arthur’s hot breaths, close to Merlin’s ear; he tries not to feel too much.

Except then Arthur bites his throat — savage, that’ll leave marks, Merlin thinks — and growls, “_Pay attention_,” closes his fist around Merlin’s cock, jerking it ruthlessly and shoving into Merlin once, twice, before Merlin gasps, his whole body seizing up as he tips over, coming all over his own chest and leaving wet stripes across Arthur’s shirt.

Arthur’s stripping him out of his jacket and shirt, ripping off a handful of buttons in the process, by the time Merlin comes back to himself, still fighting for oxygen.  

“Bed,” Arthur tells him.

Merlin blinks at him, drowsy and fucked out and blissful.  “What?”

The sound of Arthur’s dick as he pulls away is obscene, slick, and Merlin lets out a little whimper, hypersensitized, to feel the cockhead dragging inside of him, out of his sore, fucked loose opening.  But then Arthur is manhandling him some more, grabbing him roughly by the elbow and pulling him off of the desk and shoving him out of the office.

He takes the time to pin Merlin to several walls, trapping him against the cool plaster and moulding and kissing him thoroughly, lushly, hands seeking.  Arthur’s still wearing his fucking shirt and tie and his God damn pants, slung low and unzipped and loose around his hips, his dick red and gleaming — it should be ridiculous, but then Arthur’s shoving Merlin against a baroque table, shoving his tongue down Merlin’s throat and his fingers inside Merlin’s arse, just teasing.

“Fuck, you absolute _pervert_,” Merlin swears at him.

“Yes, I’m clearly the more morally bankrupt one between us,” Arthur gasps at him, which is the sort of thing for which Merlin has no retort, so he just knots Arthur’s tie around his hand and drags him the rest of the way down the hallway.  

The bed, when he gets thrown on top of it — just before Arthur lands on top of him, all teeth and possession — is enormous, downy, encompassing, but mostly he gets to appreciate the 1000-count sheets pressed up against his cheek when Arthur says, “Turn over, on your belly,” and Merlin moans, “_Bossy_,” but complies.

Arthur puts a hand between his shoulder blades, shoves a pillow under Merlin’s hips — and his dick is still too sensitive, overwhelmed by the contact as Arthur pushes him down against it — and slides right back into him, shoving at him hard enough that Merlin’s knees go out and gravity pulls Arthur deeper inside.

Merlin loves this, the after, when all his immediate, gasping need has bled out of him and he can just enjoy this, Arthur’s weight along his back.

“All right?” Arthur asks, closing one hand over Merlin’s hip, his thumb tracing a circle at the flare of bone and skin.

Sighing, Merlin says, “Yes,” hearing the single syllable stretch into three, and Arthur huffs a laugh before he begins fucking Merlin in long, unhurried strokes, left hand moving to hold Merlin’s down on the bedspread, orange streetlights glinting off of Arthur’s wedding ring, gilding the line of his arm.

It’s dreamy and hot and claustrophobic, and it feels like Arthur fucks him for hours, muscles tense and holding out, trying to wring every moment of pleasure out of this.  Merlin arches his back, rocks his hips back to meet Arthur’s, clutches at Arthur’s fingers and dips his head down, baring the back of his neck for Arthur’s teethmarks, so Arthur can — a few strokes later — curse and press his forehead to the knob of Merlin’s spine, gasp and shove into him hard one last time, and Merlin can feel Arthur coming, his dick twitching and cum slicking him up inside.

Arthur’s too heavy to lie on top of him for very long, Merlin knows, but he’s still sorry when the weight on his back eventually disappears — it’s consolation when he feels a hand in his hair, tucking the dark locks behind one ear and petting him, indulgent.

“Worth the expense?” Merlin asks, curling up to Arthur’s side and tucking his head underneath Arthur’s chin, safe.

Arthur pats at Merlin’s hair indistinctly, affectionate.  “I would refer to that experience as fair value,” he says, voice a rumble in his chest, and Merlin can’t help it, laughter spilling out of him, and he pulls himself up to his shaky knees.  He looks down at Arthur, a wreck of blond hair and flushed skin atop the bedsheets, and says:

“I’m very pleased to hear it, your royal highness, we imported prostitutes take great pride in our work.”

Smirking, Arthur drags Merlin back down, pulling him close, lacing their fingers together, wedding rings glancing.  “Excellent lark, Merlin, Prince Consort of Wales,” he murmurs.  “I shall have another dukedom delivered to  you post-haste.”

“I’d rather you put on some untainted clothes,” Merlin sighs, unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt enough so he can tuck his hand inside, scrape his nails across the wiry blond hair across Arthur’s chest.  “I had the nanny put Astrid and Tristan to bed next door but you know they’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

“And what’s wrong with seeing their parents expressing affection toward one another?” Arthur asks, drowsy.

Merlin grins.  “We’re _English_, it might damage them permanently.”

“Off with our heads,” Arthur says, and catches Merlin’s mouth in a kiss.  

It’s soft and sweet and closed-mouthed, almost chaste, Arthur’s palm cradling the back of Merlin’s head gently — and it’s ridiculous that after everything, after Uther’s death and Arthur’s coronation and his four months away from home and the longing and loneliness and compromise and grief, that such an ordinary touch should be Merlin’s undoing.  But he ignores the wetness he can feel at the corners of his eyes and just feels Arthur instead: the heat of his touch, the promise of his mouth, the beat of his heart — good, still so good after so many years — just under the skin.

***

Merlin, being an excellent judge of character when it comes to children he has helped raise for their entire lives, is wholly unsurprised when just six short hours after he coaxed Arthur into flannel pajama bottoms and a heather gray t-shirt, the exquisite stillness of the suite is interrupted by a six and four year old burst into the room.  They’re still at that age where they think Merlin and Arthur are indestructible, so Merlin wisely pulls himself out of Arthur’s arms and moves two feet to the left on the king-sized bed.  Arthur spares him a look that practically brings up a charge of treason, but then he’s too busy enduring Astrid and Tristan’s bruising tackles, their sticky kisses.

“Careful not to damage him,” Merlin chides, prying Tristan’s octopus arms from Arthur’s face.  “I’ve just broken your father in and I’d prefer not to have to find another.”

Arthur just rolls his eyes, and — with absolutely none of the quiet dignity he’d shown at the state funeral or throughout his visits with the 16 independent commonwealths he rules now — lets his children sit on him and talk over one another about how they’d sneaked, desultory, into Paris to surprise him.

“Are you surprised, Father?” Astrid asks.  She’s wearing a maroon colored jumper over a white shirt and black skirt, dark blond curls shining, and Arthur keeps touching her cheek, tugging her hair.  She’s barefoot and straddling one of Arthur’s knees, and won’t be small enough to do that much longer; Merlin knows Arthur is morose about that, he can tell from the way Arthur smoothes down the hem of her skirt, dear.

“I was very, very surprised,” Arthur tells her, and turning to Tristan, says to him,  “Especially because your Dad is _epically terrible_ at keeping secrets.”

Tristan nods.  “It’s true,” he agrees.  “He kept asking us if he should call you.”

“Now who’s the traitor,” Merlin complains, snatching Tristan up and running his fingers through the boy’s straw heap of bright blond hair — just like Arthur’s.  

He’s still in footie pajamas, and the combined affect of his treachery and ruddy pink cheeks is violently adorable.  Merlin knows now exactly how Arthur grew up to be such a terrible human being; Tristan already gets away with absolute murder, and he doesn’t even have the cowlick Arthur wielded as a toddler.  God save England if he developed a lisp of some kind, Merlin thinks, brushing Tristan’s fringe out of his familiar blue eyes.

Arthur leans back in the bed, ceding what had been Merlin’s pillow to Astrid happily, rubbing his hand over her back in large circles as she tucks her golden head under his chin now.  As usual, she leads the conversation, taking Arthur on a long, circuitous journey from their nursery at Windsor to her classmates to the black labs at Buckingham to the nuclear tantrum she’d pitched at the Tate Modern, shameless.

“Aren’t you supposed to avoid telling me things like that?” Arthur asks, amused and without any reproach in his voice, which leads Merlin to reflect that they’re wretched parents and that it’ll be a miracle if their children don’t grow up to be awful people.

Astrid levels Arthur a painfully earnest look of confusion.  “Why would I?”

“She gets that from you,” Merlin tells Arthur, and before they can reprise the Greatest Hits of Why You Are A Somewhat Less Appropriate Authority Figure Than I Am, Rosa is knocking on the suite door, peering in with an apologetic look on her face.

“Your highness, a moment to review your schedule for today?” she asks, and just like that, the moment’s broken, and Merlin’s hustling a protesting Tristan and sullen Astrid from the room, listening to Arthur’s voice — an entire octave deeper and different, a king, instead of just someone’s father, someone’s partner.

“I’ve blocked out two hours this afternoon,” Rosa says to Merlin later, stopping him at the door of the suite, Arthur taking a call from the Italian prime minister on the other side.  She presses a pair of dark sunglasses into Merlin’s hand.  “Use them wisely — I’d recommend you pull a Merlin and Arthur classic and disappear.”

Merlin can’t imagine the amount of rescheduling and reorganization it took to eke out two uninterrupted hours, but he can be grateful for it, which is how he ends up on a sidewalk in Paris, holding hands with Arthur in blissful anonymity, watching Astrid try out of her appalling French, reading street signs and mispronouncing store names and horrifying passers by.

“Cre...” she says, squinting for a moment before brightening.  “Crepes!” she squeals, turns round to seize Arthur’s free hand.  “Father — buy me a crepe.  A strawberry one!”

“Your manners are even worse than I had feared,” Arthur mourns, already pulling his hand away from Merlin to reach for his wallet, and Merlin takes the opportunity to study him, handsome in the afternoon light, responsibilities forgotten for the moment, spoiling their daughter.

It would be a lie to say Merlin’s not jealous of Arthur’s time, too, that he doesn’t feel widowed to listen to Arthur’s day sliced up in fifteen minute and half hour increments, to watch it peeled away from their children, from Merlin.  Arthur’s missed birthdays and anniversaries, and Merlin’s taken that apologetic call too many times already, listened to Arthur’s regret over a phone line.  Merlin can give up his career and Arthur can stop consulting, but they can’t shake off duty, and he remembers Arthur’s face, bereft, from yesterday night, watching Merlin hold that photograph of the four of them — the glass dappled with longing fingerprints.

“Er,” Arthur says suddenly, staring down awkwardly into his wallet.  “Bollocks.”

Merlin looks over his shoulder.  “What’s wrong?”

“I’m starving,” Astrid wails, tragic, and Tristan joins in, parroting, “starving,” even though he is no such thing and also he’s allergic to strawberries anyway.

Arthur is actually blushing now.  “I appear to have, er, no money,” he admits.

“Oh,” Merlin says, blinking, “_oh_,” and then he can’t help the absolutely evil grin that stretches across his face as he fumbles out his wallet.  Arthur’s face is the color of a beefsteak tomato or a particularly terrible sunburn, and of course it only encourages Merlin to smirk even harder as he produces easily — because he knows he has at least two hundred more in cash — a crisp, perfect fifty euro note.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Services Rendered [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/241929) by [RevolutionaryJo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevolutionaryJo/pseuds/RevolutionaryJo)




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